Roger Taylor - Caddoran

To his satisfaction there was quite a long pause before either replied. He could almost hear the clatter of confusion as their thoughts: ‘Vashnar. What does he want to see Vashnar for?’ vied with the need to answer his question.

Welt recovered first. ‘Indeed, Striker,’ he droned. ‘As ever, you have your ear firmly against the heart of the Moot.’ Bowlott inclined his head modestly. ‘But, if something has occurred of such importance that it requires you to meet directly with Commander Vashnar, we will, of course, not trouble you any further. Our concerns dwindle into insignificance.’

Bowlott waited.

‘However,’ Welt continued, ‘as Senator Bryk and I are here with you, fortuitously – the greater part of the Moot as it were.’ He made a peculiar rumbling sound which, even after many years of dealing with the man, Bowlott had to strive to remember was supposed to be a comradely chuckle. ‘Then perhaps we may be of assistance to you in your discussion with the Commander?’

Bryk, fish mouth seeking air, nodded in agreement.

Bowlott was surprised. This was a remarkably direct approach, especially from two such experienced Senators. Then again, he mused, they wouldn’t be the first Senators to become a little strange as a result of being obliged to talk to their electors. Such people could be very unsettling; they brought in the pettifogging irritations of the outside world like a cold draught.

He pretended to ponder Welt’s suggestion.

‘I appreciate your gesture, gentlemen, especially as I know you’re both very busy, but it would be…’ he stretched out the pause. ‘… inappropriate for you to become involved at the moment.’

That was enough, he thought. Keep them fluttering. He rapped his staff on the floor before either of them could pursue the matter. Out of habit, the two men stopped and bowed their heads at this signal of dismissal. Bowlott nodded to both of them and continued on his way. He allowed himself a peevish smile at the sound of scuffling and whispering behind him as the two men scurried off.

The smile vanished abruptly as just ahead of him Vashnar emerged from an adjoining passage. The Commander’s leisurely but purposeful stride carried him in like a dark cloud, and Bowlott had the impression that the pictures, tapestries and statuary that decorated the walls of the long hallway were drawing away from him watchfully as he passed, while at the same time, paradoxically, Vashnar’s bulk made everything look smaller. Involuntarily, Bowlott cringed. It was not an experience he was used to and it brought an immediate reaction. This was his domain. It was other people who cringed around here! Vashnar might be the Senior Warden Commander, but he still had things to learn about the Moot.

‘Commander,’ he called out, forcing himself to hurry forward.

The cloud paused and turned. Bowlott straightened as black eyes searched through him. His little eyes reflected the stare back.

‘Striker Bowlott,’ Vashnar acknowledged.

‘Thank you for your promptness, Commander.’

Vashnar had Bowlott’s message in his hand; he indicated it significantly. ‘Close of Moot you… ordered… Striker. And Close of Moot it is.’

Aah. That hesitation. That quiet edge to the voice. Defensive about his position. A useful hint of weakness. A good starting point. Bowlott had to make an effort not to smile. He transformed the muscular impulse into a puzzled frown.

‘May I’?’ he asked, reaching for the message. He was reading it and shaking his head as they came to his office.

Opening the door, he ushered Vashnar into the ante-room ahead of him. The two Pages jumped to their feet, knocking over their board game.

‘Page.’ Bowlott’s voice was stern; he waved the paper ahead of him like an irritable moth. ‘One does not order the Senior Commander of the Wardens. By Request, is the ending for such a message. By Request. You should both know this by now.’

‘But Striker…’ The protest ended abruptly as a left foot swung rapidly up behind a right leg to deliver a kick without in the least disturbing the kicker’s posture and demeanour.

‘I… I apologize, Striker…’ the protestor stammered, accurately reading his friend’s suggestion and just managing to suppress the urge to reach down and massage his bruised leg.

Bowlott gazed skywards and directed a hand towards Vashnar.

Increasingly flustered, it took the Page a moment to understand the gesture. ‘I apologize, Commander,’ he managed eventually. ‘I… made a mistake in interpreting the Striker’s message. The blame is mine entirely. No offence was intended.’

Vashnar gave a non-committal grunt. With a parting glower at the two Pages, Bowlott motioned Vashnar towards the door to his office. The guilty Page rushed to open it, knocking the spilt remains of the board game across the floor on his way.

As he closed the door behind the two men, he simultaneously grimaced, bent down to rub his leg and mouthed a silent oath to be shared equally between Bowlott and his companion. Still rubbing his leg, he hopped over to join his friend, now standing by the voice tube, his expression gleeful.

Though the deep, tunnel-like doorway was high enough to accommodate him comfortably, Vashnar could do no other than stoop as he passed through it. The urge to remain stooped stayed with him as he emerged from the cave entrance into the heart of the Striker’s world. The lamplit pallor, the grey oppression, the faded but almost total disorder, heightened by the occasional splash of tidiness, all conspired to ignite long-forgotten memories of childish dreams when suffocating walls and ceiling would close around him until he jerked violently awake, shouting and gasping and beating the bedclothes. Though transient, the impression was disturbing and for a moment Vashnar could not move. Bowlott, still flushed with noting the Commander’s sensitivity about his position, and his success in transferring the blame to the Pages, did not notice this demonstration of a far greater weakness.

All signs of Vashnar’s momentary discomfiture had vanished by the time Bowlott reached the central massif. He picked up a chair and placed it on the same side of the desk as his own. This would demonstrate his awareness of their equal status and further deflect blame for the ‘By Order’. Vashnar looked at the chair warily before he sat down; it creaked uneasily under his bulk. The sound made him cast an equally wary glance around the over-burdened shelves as though it might signal the onset of a catastrophic avalanche of books and papers.

Bowlott misinterpreted the movement. ‘You’ve never had the pleasure of coming to my den, have you, Commander?’ He retraced Vashnar’s glance around the room smugly. ‘It rarely fails to impress. The collected wisdom of the Moot gathered here. Statutes, debates, precedents, modes of proceeding… everything is here. The heart of the government of Arvenstaat. The wisdom of the past enshrined for the guidance of the future.’

Vashnar had difficulty in not sneering outright. Part of him still wanted to choke. Dust, paper, disorder on a scale he’d scarcely have thought possible outside a natural disaster… This could well be a metaphor for the way the Moot ran the country. And, continuing it, an inadvertent spark – perhaps from one of these lanterns – could end it all.

And out of the ashes…

He dismissed the thought quickly. Just as Bowlott did not know him, so he did not know Bowlott other than by repute and through largely formal contacts. Whatever else he might seem to be, this fat clown now beaming proprietorially at him would be crafty and capable, and quite probably ruthless in his own way. There was no saying how he might read a man.

‘It’s impressive indeed,’ he said, confining himself to the comparatively safe ground of the truth. ‘A marked contrast to my own office.’